Beyond the Veil
by Spiralling-Down
Summary: The Battle of Hogwarts was a week ago, and now the Weasleys are in mourning for Fred. But George isn't about to take that lying down - he's determined to do whatever he can to get back his twin... NOTE: On hiatus until I finish my other multichapter, sorry.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: It's not mine, it all belongs to JK.**

**Author's Note: Denying Fred's death is fun. :) This is just a short prologue, by the way – normally my chapters will be around 3000 words. Please review whenever you can! They make my day, and I always appreciate tips and constructive criticism. I really like to know what you're thinking… For now, do you think it's worth carrying on?**

* * *

It had been one week.

One painful week of tears mopped up with sodden handkerchiefs, funerals for the brave and fallen, endless cups of tea that warmed his stomach but left his heart cold, and hollow celebrations missing the only face that he wanted to see.

One Fredless week.

One week since George's foundation had disappeared and his whole world had collapsed around his shoulders.

And he had had enough. He was sick of waiting for the rubble to clear around him, sick of the burning sensation in his throat, the ache in his head and the gaping hole in his heart. He wanted Fred back, that was all.

_Is it really too much to ask?_ he thought, as he sobbed into his pillow at night, every night.

_Yes_, answered the snide little voice in the corner of his brain. _You can't have that. That's gone. Gone, gone, gone forever, never coming back._

Then Fred's laughter would sound in his mind, growing louder and louder, taunting him. And George would clamp his hands over his ears as if he could block out his own thoughts, roll over, trembling and white-faced, and wait to drift into the uneasy, feverish sleep that haunted him each night until he could wake with a faint cry in the grey light of dawn, clutching at a memory of a grinning face that was fading away from him, and feeling the tear tracks dry on his cheeks.

And so would begin another morning, another daytime nightmare with a distinct Lack-of-Fred.

But not any more. Oh no.

George's quill shook in his hand as he wrote the list, but he forced the words onto the parchment with a grim determination he hadn't realised that he possessed.

_Time Turners  
The Resurrection Stone  
Ghosts  
The Boy Who Lived  
The Veil_

There it was. Every link to the turning back of time or the world of the dead that he knew of, save death itself. Well, and history books. That list was what gave him the strength to keep going. It forced him to grit his teeth, keep on living and _hope_, because all was not yet lost.

George Weasley was going to get back his twin if it was the last bloody thing he did. He was sure of it.


	2. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Still belongs to JK. Be glad, it means you get this for free. :)**

**Author's Note: Sorry this took so long! I didn't have a huge amount of inspiration for this chapter, to be honest, and it's definitely not my best. Moving on. I have made a New Year's Resolution (six months late, yes) not to ask for reviews. I wanted to tell you now though that I will **_**always **_**appreciate constructive criticism, advice, comments or anything really, so please do write me a review if you have a bit of time! They help and encourage me no end, and I absolutely love reading them! **_**But**_** this will be the last time I specifically ask for them. I reckon you can work out whether or not you want to say something without a reminder. Now I shall shut up and get on with the story. Sorry. :P**

* * *

George groaned, as sunlight spilled in through the curtains to hit him full in the face. He rolled over in bed and buried his face in the pillow.

"Lemme sleep. 'M tired."

"Come on, Georgie. It's a big day," he heard his mother's voice say, muffled slightly by the pillow over his ears.

With Molly's voice, George's haze of sleep was broken. He wasn't in his flat with Fred, he was in the Burrow, and it was the day of… the day of… he could barely think it. He felt a familiar prickle behind his eyes and, blinking back tears, he pulled the duvet back up over his head. He wished he could go back to sleep right now, where Fred was still alive in his dreams and George didn't have to wake up just to be hit by the reality that today was the day that he would bury his twin.

"Breakfast's downstairs when you're ready," Molly sighed, sounding as if she was on the verge of tears. She had been pretty much all week, so it wasn't unlikely.

George heard footsteps moving away from him, and then a gentle click as his door closed again. He lay where he was for a moment, staring into the darkness under his covers, and then he shook himself awake and stood up, throwing the sheets off him and shivering as he was deserted by the warmth of his bed.

He padded across the hallway to the bathroom, where he leant over the sink gazing into his reflection in the mirror. He didn't really look like himself any more, or Fred. He dragged the corners of his mouth upwards into an attempt at a smile and lifted an eyebrow. Nope, still didn't look like Fred. He stared critically at the mirror. He looked paler than usual, almost ghostlike, really, which made his ginger hair and freckles stand out brightly against his face. Perhaps that was it.

A few days ago, however, this would not have been the difference to his usual self that stuck out the most. No, what struck people above all _then_ was George's sudden lack of vitality. His shoulders had slumped dejectedly, and his eyes were either full of despair or blank and unresponsive. But now, since he had made his list, everything had changed. There was something, some kind of light in his eyes that was difficult to place. It wasn't the mischievous glimmer that people were used to seeing in Fred and George's expressions, but there was a definite spark.

It was hope.

Because yes, George still missed Fred every second and he was still grieving for him, in a way, but at the same time, he had a plan. He was fiercely determined that he would make everything right again or die trying. And he couldn't be emotionless anymore as long as he believed in that.

George splashed water over his face quickly and then made his way downstairs to the kitchen, where there was a delicious smell of sizzling bacon. It was quite deceptive, considering the nature of the day.

"Morning," said George quietly as he entered the room.

His whole family swung round to stare at him. George raised his eyebrows and went to sit down at the table. Their eyes followed him nervously as he began to pour himself a cup of tea. Finally, as he put down the teapot, he turned to look at them, his lips twitching into a slight smile.

"Are you all going to stop gaping or do I have to throw a tantrum first?" he asked lightly, "Because I really had no intention of doing that, but if it's expected…"

There was an uncomfortable silence, which was broken by Bill.

"We're just worried about you," he said. He raised a hand to his cheek, tracing the scars down his face absentmindedly, in some kind of nervous habit he'd picked up during the war. "Sorry, George."

George looked back down at his plate. This wasn't going to be as easy as he had hoped. Of course, he couldn't very well just announce to the other Weasleys, _Not to worry, everyone, I'm just going to pop off for a few minutes and resurrect Fred_. They'd have him locked up in St Mungo's for sure. So naturally, they were going to carry on pussyfooting around him like they'd been doing for the past week. Which was understandable behaviour actually, considering the fact that the first thing George had done when he'd returned home was to smash a mirror and then lock himself in his bedroom, sobbing and refusing to speak to anyone.

Suddenly, he became aware that Bill was still waiting for an answer. "Oh, err… Well, thanks for the concern… I suppose."

Molly burst into tears.

_Now what've I done? _thought George desperately.

She ran to pull him into a hug.

_Oh._

George silently wrapped his arms around his mother in resignation, resting his head against her shoulder, until after a minute she straightened up again, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

"Well, we'll all be together at least," she said in a watery voice.

"That's right," said Arthur, slipping his arm around her waist. He glanced at his watch. "OK, everyone, we've still got a couple of hours before we have to go." He shrugged helplessly, looking lost for words.

"I'm gonna go and get ready," said Ron.

He stood up, pushing away his unfinished breakfast (which was very unlike him) and strode off up the stairs, taking them two at a time. George saw Harry, Hermione and Ginny on the other side of the table exchange some kind of three-way glance, and they too got up to follow Ron without a word. Even Percy also gave up on pushing bits of food around his plate and hurried out of the room.

After this, the discussion turned away from the funeral and onto less painful subjects. Charlie and Bill managed to keep up a flow of conversation for a little while, discussing the repairs that were being made to Hogwarts castle and the constant flurry of reporters who had been following Harry around since the final battle.

"Did you see that Rita Skeeter article?" asked Bill.

"No…"

"She's speculating about Harry and Hermione again. I caught Ron reading it, he was going mental. Oh, and Ginny's not particularly happy either – she's being put down as the 'jealous ex-girlfriend'."

"I can't wait 'til Ginny gets hold of dear old Rita!" chuckled George. "Maybe she could do a nice article on the Bat Bogey Hex."

"Sounds ghastly," said Charlie with a slight smile. "I much preferred the Quibbler's take on it."

Bill raised his eyebrows. "Go on…"

Charlie paused dramatically. "They appear to have unearthed quite a scandal."

"Get to the point."

"Keep your hair on, Bill." Charlie shook his head. "You see, it turns out that You-Know-Who was really – get this – Mad-Eye Moody's son!"

"WHAT? What potions has Xenophilius Lovegood been taking?"

"I know, right?" said Charlie. "But it gets worse. Apparently when You-Know-Who was a baby, older Mad-Eye came to younger Mad-Eye from the future, using a Time Turner, to tell him that You-Know-Who had taken over the wizarding world, and for everyone else to be in with a chance of stopping him, You-Know-Who had to grow up with Muggles instead of wizards. So that was why he got put in an orphanage run by Mug-"

"But that's impossible!" interrupted Bill, unable to keep himself from bursting out any longer.

"I know that, but when has it ever stopped Xeno?" grinned Charlie, rolling his eyes. "Anyway, it was a good read."

* * *

Three hours later, the atmosphere was a lot less light. George was sitting hunched in the front row of a Muggle church in Ottery St Catchpole along with the other Weasleys. The funeral was being held without magic, despite the all-wizard attendance. Molly and Arthur claimed this was in case any Muggles hanging around noticed them, but George had a sneaking suspicion that it was a deliberate ploy on his mother's part to stop him from setting off any fireworks or donning a Headless Hat for the occasion.

In any case, he was now dressed in depressingly black dress robes, staring coldly at the tufty-haired wizard who'd led Bill's wedding ceremony and Dumbledore's funeral.

_For crying out loud, isn't there anyone else in the whole of Britain who can do it? _he thought irritably, as the wizard's dreary voice washed over him.

"Fred Weasley was a remarkable young man, whose loving nature and sense of humour was held dear to those around him. He will be greatly missed for his ever-constant-"

Yawn. Thank Merlin this wasn't Fred's real funeral. If George hadn't been so certain that he'd manage to bring Fred back to life, he would have been making a hell of a lot more of an effort to liven up the affair a bit. Of course, if he hadn't thought he'd be able to bring Fred back, he would probably be in the deepest, darkest pits of despair right now. Perhaps not the right frame of mind to be making sparklers chase Great Aunt Muriel around.

The old vulture was currently sitting several rows behind George, but her voice still managed to carry all the way to his seat.

"Frederick was always rushing into silly situations. I knew it would only be a matter of time before something like this happened," she was currently whispering. Very loudly.

George clenched his fists in front of him. Why she'd even been invited was beyond him; it was no secret that she hated the twins, so he was surprised she'd even agreed to attend Fred's funeral. He gritted his teeth hard, wishing she could've dropped dead instead of his twin, preferably in a very painful and humiliating manner. There was no way anyone would be fighting to get her back, that was for sure.

George began to look around at the rest of his family, also in the front row. On the end was Fleur, with Bill sitting next to her. She was crying silently, somehow still managing to look stunning as she did so, and she and Bill were leaning together with Bill's cheek resting on the top of her head. George could tell even from where he was sitting that Bill's teeth were clenched together. The skin on his face was tight, making his scars stand out more noticeably than normal. This was the kind of situation that made the hint of werewolf in him show through.

Next to Bill was Charlie, who, like Bill, had managed not to cry so far. His hands were balled tightly into fists, hanging down on either side of his chair, and his face was set determinedly hard. He seemed to be focussing on a point somewhere just over the tufty-haired wizard's left shoulder.

Percy came next. His face was the picture of guilt; George knew he had blamed himself for Fred's death ever since the battle, whatever the rest of the family had told him. Percy kept insisting that he had distracted Fred, that he should have saved him, that he should have died in his place. It was quite worrying really. Percy was the only one of George's brothers who was crying – there were a few tears rolling down his cheeks, though he appeared not to have noticed. He was sitting up straight and watching the ceremony with rapt attention, but that was probably just because it fitted with his sense of decorum.

Then came Hermione and Ron, who had fallen straight into their new couple-ness and were acting rather like Bill and Fleur. Hermione's face was buried in Ron's neck, her shoulders heaving with silent sobs, and his arms were tightly around her. He was trembling slightly, as though he was finding it hard to take in the fact that he was at his brother's funeral, and George suspected that he'd had a good cry over the whole thing that morning after breakfast.

The other new couple – Harry and Ginny – was sat between Ron and George. Their hands were tightly entwined between them and both were staring straight ahead. Ginny's eyes were red but dry. As George watched, she squeezed Harry's fingers and leaned over to whisper something in his ear. Harry smiled down at her, and then Ginny turned to George, holding out her free hand to him. He took it, grateful for the physical contact after a week of isolation, and she lay her head down on his shoulder.

"You OK?" she whispered.

"As much as possible knowing that Fred would've detested this entire thing."

She smiled wryly. "I know what you mean. Wish I'd brought one of your Canary Creams to feed Muriel."

George suppressed a snigger, feeling like he ought to humour his mother, who would be distraught at the idea of him laughing at Fred's funeral. He forced his face back into a sombre expression and turned to his right to take a look at his parents.

Molly, as he had expected, was in full-blown sobbing mode. Tears were streaming down her face, and her hand was clenched tightly around Arthur's wrist as her shoulders shook violently. Arthur was rubbing her back with his spare hand. With a shock, George saw a tear fall from the end of his long nose, and he removed his glasses to wipe them clean. George looked away miserably. He didn't think he'd ever seen his father cry before – it was normally Molly who was emotional, with Arthur acting as the sensible one, comforting her. A lump began to form in the back of George's throat and he swallowed hard.

_Don't be an idiot_, he told himself. _You have no reason to go and break down like some wimp. Not in front of Muriel at any rate. Come on, George, just picture her as a canary. That's right, smile. Good._

Soon, the ceremony was over, and everyone trooped out into the graveyard. George looked stubbornly away as Fred's coffin was lowered into the ground. He didn't want to see it; hell, he didn't even want to think about it. But annoyingly, as he was called forwards to sprinkle a handful of earth over the grave, a thought did strike him. And it was bloody terrifying.

What if he needed Fred's body to bring him back?

The earth fell from his fingertips, scattering over the top of the casket and hiding his brother further away from him, covering him up so that he was unreachable.

_No. No!_

George's eyes widened in panic and he was about to spin around, to yell that the funeral had been called off and it was all right, everyone could just go home and forget all about it, and – bloody hell – he'd store Fred's body in their room if he had to, he really didn't care… But then a firm hand was on his shoulder, guiding him away from the grave, and Percy had stepped in to take George's place. Another handful or dirt fell, enveloping Fred even further.

This time, George didn't think the words. He would make himself heard, and damn the consequences.

"No!" he yelled. "Stop, you can't take him away!"

"George, it's all right," said the owner of the hand, which was still on his shoulder.

George looked up. It was Bill. Bloody Bill, always playing the sensible older brother.

"No, it's not all right! Don't do this!" George fell to his knees, tears beginning to form behind his eyes. His voice grew quieter. "I need him."

He put his forehead down on the ground and began to sob. He knew he wasn't thinking straight, but the stress and pain of the past week had got to him all at once, and having Fred buried right next to him _wasn't helping_.

He heard a tutting noise from behind him, which was instantly recognisable as Great Aunt Muriel.

"Attention seeking," she said loudly.

"Oh, do us a favour and shut up, you old bat, just for once," Ginny snapped at her.

"Ginny!" said Molly, sounding flabbergasted.

Ginny ignored her and continued to snarl at Muriel. "This isn't exactly a picnic for George, is it?"

There was a huffing noise from Muriel and the sound of footsteps, followed by a loud crack. It appeared that she'd Disapparated away. Good. George had never been more glad to see the 'no magic' rule broken.

"Come on, George." It was a different voice, not one of the family's this time. It took George a moment to place it through his grief, but a second later he recognised it as the voice of his and Fred's best friend from school, Lee Jordan.

Lee stretched out a hand to George. George just shook his head, his vision blurring with tears. He heard his mother sob from close by. Lee sighed and grabbed George by the shoulder.

"You're coming with me whether you like it or not." He continued more softly, "Please, mate." Lee knelt down beside him. "I'm not above carrying you, you know."

George knew when he was beaten. He forced a laugh and sat up slowly, wiping his sleeve across his eyes, though it did nothing to stem the flow of tears. He and Lee walked off to the side together, allowing the others to get a good view of Fred's grave. George looked away, feeling quite sick at the idea of his twin's body lying beneath the ground.

Suddenly, Lee sniggered and pointed over the wall of the graveyard. There was a handful of Muggles peering over in astonishment at the Weasleys' group, whispering amongst themselves. Lee put on a high voice and began to imitate what he imagined they were saying, commenting on the dress robes and the sea of red hair. George let out a more genuine laugh and swiped his hand across his face once more. Good old Lee; he always knew what to say to cheer George up. He supposed it came from spending seven years with him and Fred at Hogwarts.

There was no reason to worry, he decided, now that he was thinking more clearly. He'd find a way around the body problem – he was George Weasley, for Merlin's sake! He was one of the two brains behind such masterpieces as Skiving Snackboxes; in comparison to hiding Doxy eggs from his mother, this should be no problem.

First though, he'd have to corner Harry. He had a few questions to ask… Perhaps he'd give it a go back at the Burrow in a few minutes.


	3. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of this – it all belongs to our queen, JK Rowling!**

**Author's Note: As you may have noticed, I have now (badly) drawn a cover for this story, so I hope you like it! The whole cover thing sounds awesome! I'm getting kind of over-excited about it, and I'm probably spending longer drawing and editing covers for each of my stories than I spend writing them… Oops.**

**Warning: The end of this chapter is incredibly cheesy! I'm still debating whether or not I should redo it, but if you're reading this then apparently I couldn't come up with anything better. I hope you enjoy it anyway!  
**

* * *

It didn't take too long for the funeral-goers to finish paying their last respects to Fred. George looked determinedly in the opposite direction for the entire time that it was happening, and only rejoined the group when everyone was ready to leave the church. The Weasleys were headed back to the Burrow, along with the rest of their close family and friends, where they were holding a- Well, party didn't seem like the right word in the context, but it was definitely a post-funeral gathering of some sort. Luckily, Great Aunt Muriel was not invited. George heaved a sigh of relief as she Apparated away in a swirl of black scarf and coat, and went to join his family in a field near the graveyard, where they would all be taking a Portkey back to the Burrow.

Today, the Portkey was a particularly large old watering can that Arthur had somehow thought it appropriate to smuggle into the funeral. George looked at it critically and decided that there had probably been an Engorgio charm involved, to make sure it would be big enough for all twenty or so guests to use. Everyone crowded around it, each of them managing to get at least one fingernail on it, and waited to be pulled through space to the Burrow. For a second, George wondered how they would look to any Muggle passersby… It wasn't often that you passed a field to see twenty men and women dressed in black and clustered around a rusting metal object. In fact, George rather thought they looked like those Muggle pictures of spies Arthur had shown him and Fred a few years ago when he'd had a brief obsession with something called… What was the name? Oh yeah, James Pond.

But before George's mind could elaborate on these thoughts and perhaps begin to construct a detailed scenario for a meeting of Muggle spies (and their watering can) he felt a familiar jerk behind his navel, and his feet left the ground. For a few seconds, colours whirled around him as he spun through space, and then all of a sudden he was deposited in the garden of the Burrow. He staggered, but managed to keep himself upright, and he immediately detached himself from the crowd before he could be trampled by any of his many ginger cousins.

For the next little while, George wandered around the garden avoiding family members who were reminiscing loudly about Fred. Most of the stories they were telling were entirely fictitious, and as George had no desire to be dragged into them, he made up his mind that he'd be safer if he kept well out of the way of any well-meaning but bloody irritating relatives.

After a minute of hovering near the food, George decided he'd had enough of hanging around outside. He began to sneak quietly towards the house, with the intention of waiting out the rest of the day in his room, when-

"Ah, George, there you are!" said Molly, hurrying towards him, looking harried. "Could you do me a favour and take these out?"

She thrust a stack of plates into George's arms and began to propel him back out into the garden.

Unfortunately for George, just as he dumped the plates onto the garden table and turned back in the direction of the house, he was met by a fat, red-faced uncle with several tufts of ginger hair sprouting from his scalp, who was clutching a glass of Firewhisky and whose name had entirely escaped George. He thought he remembered meeting him once when he was four years old… However, the only details that came to mind about that particular occasion was the fact that, after two hours of listening to him ramble about his views on politics, Fred and George had succeeded in not only tying his shoelaces together but Spellotaping them to the floor as well. The Spellotape had turned out to be quite a lot stronger than either of them had anticipated, and it had taken a good half hour to get the shoelaces unstuck. George _really _hoped the uncle had forgotten about this.

"Jus' the man…" slurred the uncle, swaying on the spot slightly.

He prodded George in the chest. Oh, Merlin, he was already drunk, and they'd only been back for a few hours… Fantastic.

"Are you Fred or George?" the uncle continued. "I can' remember… Oh yeah, you're Fr- George. Yeah, your parents tol' me you were missing an ear."

_I bet you ten Galleons there's a more obvious reason for me not to be Fred than the number of ears. _

The uncle's eyes abruptly began to fill with tears. "And your brother's gone an' got 'imself dead."

_Yep, you got it in one. And bonus points for eloquence. Ding ding.  
_

The uncle continued to mumble vaguely about the twins, downing more Firewhisky between each sentence. George quickly gathered that he was under the impression that Fred and George had worked on the Knight Bus, as opposed to in their joke shop. George had fun for about ten minutes listening to stories about his own life that he'd been totally unaware of, but he soon grew bored and started looking for an escape route. However, whenever he came close to backing away, his uncle seized his shoulder and started to weep again. It was beginning to become quite annoying, and George was about to wrench himself out of the uncle's grasp and make a run for it, whether it was rude or not, when he found himself surrounded by a large group of relatives, some of which where, like the unknown uncle, in varying states of drunkenness.

"George, I just wanted to tell you I'm so sorry for your loss," Cousin Philip told George, patting him on the shoulder.

"If there's anything we can do, anything at all…" said an old witch George recognised as Aunt Esmeralda.

"We know this must be a difficult time for you and your family."

"Thanks," muttered George, squirming uncomfortably and looking for a way out. This was precisely what he'd been hoping to avoid. He gestured towards the house. "Do you mind if I go and…"

Apparently, his crowd of well-wishers _did_ mind if he left, because none of them made a move to allow him to get out. George vaguely considered summoning his Beater's bat to break his own way through, but he didn't particularly fancy the yelling he'd get from Molly when she found a heap of unconscious guests in the garden. It was only after another half hour of painful condolences that George managed to escape, under the pretence of needing the loo.

Once he was out of sight of his relatives, he sprinted away into the cover of the orchard. He sat down against a mossy tree, leaning his head into the bark and breathing a sigh of relief. It was hardly the most comfortable position he'd been in, but it would do. George dug his hands into his pockets, and with a slight surprise, felt the fingers of his right hand connect with parchment. He pulled out the crumpled sheet and smoothed it out.

_Time Turners__  
__The Resurrection Stone__  
__Ghosts__  
__The Boy Who Lived__  
__The Veil_

Ah yes, his list… He'd been looking over it that morning, and he must have shoved it into his pocket before they'd left for the funeral. George closed his fingers over it again, feeling comforted by the slight crackle of the parchment. One of these things would bring back Fred. He just had to try hard enough.

George shut his eyes, allowing memories of his twin to wash over him, and smiled slightly.

* * *

"_Hey, Georgie, come and see this!"_

_Four year old Fred's grinning face appeared about half an inch in front of George's. His eyes were alight with adventure, and he was bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet, unable to keep his excitement from spilling over._

"_What is it, what is it?"_

"_Guess!"_

"_I can't, what is it?"_

"_You have to guess!"_

"_But I don't know."_

"_Just guess!"_

"_Is it a dragon?"_

"_Course not! Guess again!"_

_George crossed his arms, pouting at his twin. "I can't guess."_

"_Then come and see. It's over here!"_

_Fred turned and ran off across the garden. George followed him without hesitation, not really caring that the wet grass was sticking to his bare feet as he pounded along. His stomach buzzed with the thrill of whatever mischief they were about to get into, and he felt a grin stretch across his face. At the moment, the fact that he and Fred were supposed to stay in sight of the house didn't even cross his mind. He wasn't scared, because he was with Fred, and as long they were together, nothing would hurt them. And he would always be with Fred, whatever happened. Always._

* * *

Suddenly, George was brought back to reality as a hand landed heavily on his shoulder. Oh God, the guests must have found him… George scowled and reached for his wand, curses running through his mind. If he got so much as a sympathetic glance from someone, they were going to find themselves with a brand new set of purple boils on their backsides, and perhaps a few tentacles.

George spun round, furiously brandishing his wand in front of him, no longer caring how rude he looked. After all, he could always use grief as an excuse.

"Erm… George? What in the name of Merlin's pants are you doing?"

George looked up and discovered that he'd just thrust his wand not at another irritating well-wisher but straight into Ron's face. Harry, Hermione and Ginny were standing a little way back, looking rather nervous. George pocketed the wand and pulled himself to his feet, giving his younger brother a wry smile.

"Sorry, mate, I mistook you for Aunt Esmeralda."

"Do I _look _like Aunt Esmeralda?" said Ron, sounding slightly offended.

George smirked at him. "In all honesty, yes." He narrowed his eyes at Ron, examining him critically. "You have the same dress sense."

"Thanks a lot…" said Ron with a slight laugh. When George didn't join in, his expression changed to one of concern. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, yeah." George waved his hand airily, shrugging off the question. "So you four came out to hide as well? I was wondering why you weren't around."

"We wanted some peace and quiet," said Ginny, stepping forwards.

George nodded and turned to face Harry, who still seemed a little apprehensive.

"Harry, just the guy I've been looking for!"

"You have?" said Harry.

He pulled off his glasses and polished them on his robes, giving George the distinct impression that Harry was avoiding eye contact. Come to think of it, George had barely spoken to Harry since the Battle.

"I just want a quick word," he said.

"Umm… OK."

"Perhaps somewhere a little bit away from these three nosy gits," George said lightly.

He could practically feel Ron, Ginny and Hermione's eyes boring into his side, and it was pretty off-putting. He raised an eyebrow at Ron, who hurriedly pretended not to have been looking and turned away, his ears going red.

"I'll be back in a moment," Harry said to his three friends, and he set off with George, deeper into the orchard.

After a little while, they reached a clearing that George deemed suitably far away from the others. He knew Harry would tell them everything he said the second they got back, and he didn't care. He just didn't want his little siblings and their friend staring or making comments while he was trying to concentrate on the task at hand.

George turned to Harry, his stomach leaping. This was it. In just a few minutes, perhaps he would have the information he needed to bring back Fred. Just a couple more minutes.

"So-" began George, but before he could get further than that first word, he was cut off by Harry.

"George, mate, I'm so sorry," said Harry, finally meeting George's eyes.

"What _are _you on about?"

"It was my fault, if I'd given myself up earlier…" Harry shuffled uncomfortably, his gaze returning to the ground.

"Don't be an idiot, of course it's not your fault," said George, rolling his eyes. "Only dear old You-Know-Who and his jolly band of Death Eaters are to blame."

"But if I'd just gone to Voldemort, Fred might still be here!" Harry blurted out.

"Listen, Harry. You may be the Chosen One or whatever, but I'm sure Fred wouldn't want a specky, scrawny seventeen-year-old taking all the credit for his 'heroic sacrifice'." George's fingers sketched quotation marks in the air as he spoke. "So stop beating yourself up about it, OK? Anyway, that's not what I want to talk to you for."

"It isn't?" asked Harry, scrunching up his face in obvious confusion.

"Actually, I think you can help me."

"I'll do whatever I can," said Harry earnestly.

"You know when you told us about going into the Forest to let our least favourite Dark Lord try to kill you?"

"Yeah…" Harry said warily.

"Did you really have the Resurrection Stone?"

Harry's jaw tightened and he looked down at the floor again. George could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he waited for Harry's reply. Harry was about to reach into his pocket and bring out the stone, and then they would bring Fred back to life and everything would go back to normal. He knew it.

"I'm sorry, George."

Hang on, what? This wasn't what George had been expecting to hear!

"I dropped the stone in the Forest," Harry continued sadly.

George's body felt numb. It was as if he was falling. This couldn't be happening, he had been sure that Harry would have all the answers he needed…

"That's OK though," George said desperately. "We can go to the Forest, we can find it again. It's OK."

"No, I- That stone- I don't want anyone to go looking for it. It's better off away from other people. It's dangerous." Harry crossed over to George and put a hand on his arm, but George shook it off.

"I'll take the risk for Fred."

"No, you don't understand… No magic can bring back the dead, that's what Dumbledore told me."

"But it's the _Resurrection _Stone," said George. "It _can _bring back the dead."

"It only brings back echoes of people… They don't belong here any more. He wouldn't… He wouldn't be happy."

"But we're not happy now either. You don't get it, we're not meant to be away from each other. He's my twin."

George turned away from Harry and crossed over to another tree, pressing his forehead against the rough bark. For the second time that day, tears sprang into his eyes, but he blinked them back determinedly, gulping down the lump that had risen in his throat.

"I'm sorry, there's just no way," Harry tried again.

"Then how did you survive?"

As soon as the question was out of his mouth, George realised how childish it sounded. But if it helped him get Fred back then what did he care?

"I barely even understand that myself," said Harry quietly. "There was a bit of Voldemort's soul inside of me. That bit of soul was killed, but I had the chance to come back."

"Oh. Well if it helps, I reckon Fred took a bit of my soul with him," said George bitterly. "Maybe I could exchange that for him back. Does Death do bargains, do you know?"

"I don't think it works like that," said Harry, giving George a tired smile. "Shall we go back now?"

"I'll be along in a minute. You go ahead."

"If you're sure."

George turned to face the tree trunk again, listening to Harry's footsteps fading away from him. He sat down on the floor and curled his body against the tree, pulling his knees up into his chest and resting his chin on them. He stayed still in that position for a few minutes, hopelessness weighing him down like a solid presence. Eventually, feeling hollow and empty, he pulled out the parchment again. Frowning, he waved his wand at the list, and two entries faded out. It now read:

_Time Turners  
Ghosts  
The Veil_

And in George's heart, two of his last sparks of hope flickered out. Only three chances remained.


End file.
